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Melting Point
Debra Cowan
Collier McClain narrowly escaped being killed by the bullet that took a fellow firefighter's life. One of the first cops at the scene was Blaze, a woman who ignited the kind of heat that could sear a man's soul.With a fourth firefighter down, Detective Kiley Russell was in dire need of backup. Someone used to being in the line of fire. Someone like Collier McClain, a man she'd been trying to forget since they shared a bone-melting dance that made her burn for more.Now they were partners in a murder investigation, where the greatest danger came from their sizzling attraction….
“What’s the matter, Russell? Afraid you might like me in spite of yourself?”
It was already too late for that. Kiley Russell faced him. “Don’t misunderstand. I think we can work together just fine, but let’s keep things strictly business.”
“All right.”
“Which means we probably shouldn’t be dancing.”
Collier released her arm. “Gotcha.”
Ignoring the sinking feeling in her stomach. Kiley watched as he turned and made his way through the crowd toward the bar. Good. Now there would be no misunderstandings, no more dancing, no more touching.
Her gaze traced the broad line of his shoulders, the slightly ragged edge of his dark hair as she recalled the seductive feel of his hard body against hers.
Who was she kidding?
What she felt for him was hotter and more dangerous than mere “like.”
Melting Point
Debra Cowan
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
DEBRA COWAN
Like many writers, Debra made up stories in her head as a child. Her B.A. in English was obtained with the intention of following family tradition and becoming a schoolteacher, but after she wrote her first novel, there was no looking back. After years of working another job in addition to writing, she now devotes herself full-time to penning both historical and contemporary romances. An avid history buff, Debra enjoys traveling. She has visited places as diverse as Europe and Honduras, where she and her husband served as part of a medical mission team. Born in the foothills of the Kiamichi Mountains, Debra still lives in her native Oklahoma with her husband and their two beagles, Maggie and Domino.
Debra invites her readers to contact her at P.O. Box 30123, Coffee Creek Station, Edmond, OK 73003-0003 or via e-mail at her Web site at: www.debracowan.net.
This book is dedicated to firefighters.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My deepest gratitude to David Wiist, retired Chief of Fire Prevention, Edmond, OK, a true gentleman who patiently answers countless questions; to Jack Goldhorn, PIO, Norfolk Fire Rescue, Norfolk, VA, whose enthusiasm always makes me smile. Both of you go beyond the call to help me with accuracy. Any errors are mine. To Linda Goodnight, nurse, writer and friend, and her wonderful son, Dr. Travis Goodnight. Finally to my agent, Pattie Steele-Perkins. Thanks for never giving up.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 1
A gunshot exploded in the frigid night, the sound cutting sharply through the thunking of the hydrant valve and the water gushing through the fire hose. In full turnout gear, Presley firefighter Collier McClain threw himself to the ground. A few yards in front of him, at the door of the burning warehouse, Dan Lazano wobbled and fell. The nozzle flopped. Collier automatically moved his hand up the line to gain control and shouted, “Mayday! Firefighter down!”
Keeping the nozzle on and water streaming into the building, he belly-crawled forward. Light from the flames illuminated Lazano’s steel-soled boot. Collier wet down the surrounding space, making a “safe area” for him and the injured man as the two-man Rapid Intervention Team from the Presley Fire Department followed the hose line straight to him.
The moon was a bloodless white, the January air brittle. Black smoke and hot water wrapped around Collier like a thermal blanket, burning his neck. He sprayed water on the safe area until Pitts and Foster reached Lazano, then he pushed the lever forward to turn off the nozzle.
As two other firefighters dragged in another line already shooting water, Collier moved out behind Lazano and the rescue crew. Pitts and Foster, firefighters and medics, dragged the injured man into the grass, yards away from the building. While they began administering basic life support, Collier yanked off his helmet and Nomex hood, his heart hammering in his throat.
“Damn,” Pitts yelled. “He’s gone.”
Collier followed the other man’s gaze and saw a dark wetness spreading over Lazano’s chest through a ragged hole in his turnout coat.
“McClain, is that Lazano?”
Through the stomp of feet and hiss of water and grunts of effort, he recognized Captain Sandusky’s voice and nodded. He stared down in disbelief at the black stickiness on his glove. Blood?
“What happened?”
Collier shook his head.
Sandusky knelt, reaching toward the downed man. “Is he out?”
“He’s dead.” Collier’s gaze locked with his captain’s.
The other man blinked, alarm rising in his voice. “Where did that gunshot come from?”
Collier jerked a thumb over his shoulder. Pitts and Foster looked away, their throats working.
“This is four.” The captain’s tortured words mirrored Collier’s thoughts.
Since October, three other firefighters had been murdered. Tonight’s victim and one other were from Station House Two.
Sandusky flipped on his flashlight, then cursed. “I’ll call the police. Your new boss, too.”
Collier stood there stunned, only one thought circling through his head. If he’d been first on the nozzle tonight, as he usually was, as he had tried to be, he would be the one lying dead in the grass.
A firefighter had been killed at a fire scene. Not by smoke or burns but by a gun. Murdered.
Detective Kiley Russell wished she didn’t have experience with anything like this, but she did. All of three months’ worth. Lieutenant Hager had paged her tonight because of the other firefighter murders she had been working since October. His grim announcement of another victim had balled a cold knot of dread in her gut. Serial killer. A sniper.
The first victim had been killed during a fire call at the gymnasium of Presley’s oldest high school. The second victim had been murdered five weeks later at a motel he’d checked into with a mystery woman. Number three, the only female, had been shot in her home garage.
Somebody was after the firefighters in this Oklahoma City suburb.
Kiley gathered her mass of wild red hair into a ponytail, stuffed her feet into sneakers and grabbed her heaviest coat out of the hall closet. Moving out of the house, she clipped her badge and holstered Taurus onto the waistband of her jeans. The new year was starting off with a bang. Literally.
January cold pressed the air like a thick layer of batting. As Kiley maneuvered her late-model Mustang through the streets of Presley, she called her sister’s cell phone and left a message so Kristin would know Kiley would miss their weekly Saturday breakfast just a few hours from now.
She headed for the south side of town and Benson Street, an industrial area that housed several warehouses. The fire was at Rehn’s Coffee Warehouse.
By the time she arrived, patrol officers had blocked off the area. Red and blue lights flashed from the police cruisers book-ending the scene. She showed her badge to the uniformed officer posted at this end of the street, then parked beside the ambulance crouched in front of the curb with its back doors open, its empty gurney raised and waiting.
Scanning the massive building, Kiley stepped out of her car and pulled on her fleece-lined gloves. The blaze appeared to be out. Large scene lights, attached to two fire trucks, shone on the warehouse. Gray-brown smoke swirled into clouds. A concrete drive, wide enough to accommodate two semi trucks side by side, led up to a heavy metal door. Docking doors and offices opened into a large parking lot on the side.
Shards of glass glittered in the dusky white light put off by bulbs shining from under the eaves of the flat-topped building. Black sooty water ran down the concrete drive and into the streets, sloshing over the tops of her tennis shoes.
Kiley’s breath frosted the air. Thank goodness this wasn’t a residential area and there were no bystanders. Three fire engines, one ladder truck and one rescue unit lined the curb in front of the warehouse. Stations One, Two and Four, she observed. More than one Presley station house responded to fire calls, mainly to ensure enough manpower. House fires typically had two stations responding as well as the station that housed the rescue truck. The size of this warehouse had probably warranted the response of three stations. Tonight’s victim was the second one from Station Two. Did that mean anything?
Three black-and-whites, two trucks from local utility companies and the M.E.’s wagon crowded the width of the street. Two vans sporting local news logos pulled up to the barricade blocking traffic behind her. Kiley moved around the rear of her car and stopped at the curb to give her name and rank to the cop logging in personnel with his clipboard. A sharp wind pulled tendrils of her hair across her face, and she shoved them back.
Having checked in, she started up the flat drive, sidestepping deflated canvas hoses. Firefighters moved around the scene, the short browned grass now soggy and black. A length of yellow crime-scene tape stretched down the left side of the drive, across the entrance and up to the back corner of the shipping dock. Although she expected to find nothing, she sent two officers to search the area and the area across the street for the gun.
There were no windows in the front of the building, but there were several on the side, a few panes now shattered and saber-toothed in the darkness. A male firefighter stood in the center of the football-field-size drive, aiming a video camera at the scene. Kiley had recently learned that the Presley Fire Department videotaped eighty percent of their scenes, especially if they appeared suspicious.
About seventy-five yards from the door, a lone fireman knelt on the ground next to a body. Other firefighters gathered around him.
“Detective!”
Kiley turned to see Captain Martin Sandusky from Station Two.
“Here. You’ll need to put on some boots.” The barrel-chested man, sweating despite the freezing temperature, caught up to her. “That way you won’t have to worry about any hot spots or sharp objects.”
Debris littered the grass and the cracked concrete drive. From what Kiley could tell, the trash appeared to be mostly ash, glass and fiberglass insulation, but nails, screws and pieces of metal could easily be scattered as well.
“Thanks.” She took the steel-soled rubber boots and pulled them on over her tennis shoes, then walked with the captain up to the circle of firefighters.
Frigid air stung her cheeks and nose. She burrowed deeper into the lining of her coat. Presley was small enough that all police, including the detectives, worked solo except in fire death cases. Procedure between Presley’s police and fire departments stated that when PFD had a dead body at a fire scene, they contained the blaze then stopped and called Homicide. Tonight, the victim was again one of their own.
“What can you tell me so far?” she asked the captain.
“We rolled up. Lazano and McClain both headed for the nozzle. I thought McClain had it until I heard a boom and saw Lazano being dragged over by the rescue crew.”
So, Collier McClain was working tonight. Peachy. “How severe was the fire?”
“It was going great guns when we arrived and powered up as soon as Lazano got the door open, but it was out in less than twenty minutes. It was a sniper shot again, came from behind us across the street.”
What was going on with this lunatic? As she approached the tight circle of firefighters with their captain, the five men and two women eased back enough that Kiley could see the body.
Captain Sandusky cleared his throat, drawing the gazes of the firefighters except the one guarding the victim. “Guys, here’s Detective Russell.”
They greeted her with solemn nods. She’d come to know most of them over the past three months.
“Where’s Investigator Spencer?” someone asked.
“She’s on her way.” Kiley took in the soot-streaked yellow hats, the wet, grimy turnout gear, smoke and tear-reddened eyes on all the firefighters, but her attention homed in on the man lying motionless at their feet.
Still wearing turnout gear, the man’s handsome face and dark eyebrows were unmarred from smoke. The glinting darkness of blood on his chest had Kiley swallowing hard.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured. “Who moved the body?”
“We did.” Two firefighters raised their hands.
“Pitts and Foster,” Sandusky supplied. “They’re our Rapid Intervention Team tonight.”
“We retrieved him and started working on him,” one of them said.
“It’s standard procedure.” The kneeling fireman raised his head and looked at her.
The air seeped out of her lungs. After Sandusky’s mentioning that Collier McClain was here, she had expected to see him, but she hadn’t been prepared.
In this light, his eye color was impossible to discern, but Kiley remembered the stormy green that was now glazed with shock. That wasn’t all she remembered.
She’d spent the past four weeks trying to forget the Christmas party at the Fraternal Order of Police club. That knee-melting dance. His nerve-tingling drawl. Why did he have to be here?
He gestured to the body crumpled on the frosty grass. “Lazano had on all his protective gear, but they had to get him out of the danger zone, see the extent of his injuries. There was no way of knowing if the building was going to come down, if the fire was going to swallow us up.”
She glanced over her shoulder at the warehouse, ignoring the sudden hitch in her pulse. Collier looked ragged, but he was as darkly compelling as ever. The concrete building was streaked with black, and glass littered the east edge of the driveway. “Looks like the fire was contained pretty quickly.”
“It was,” the captain put in, staring down at Lazano’s body.
“I’m sorry about your man, Captain. I’ll be able to piece the scene back together with firefighter statements and those from your RIT.”
“Good.”
She refocused her attention on Collier. His helmet rested beside him.
“Here comes Investigator Spencer now,” someone said.
